


Tamed It in the Rapture

by DreamyPen



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dragonborn is not impressed, Enemies to Lovers to Friends, F/M, Miraak Lives, Miraak and Last Dragonborn have adventures in Tamriel, Miraak is a Bad Guy, POV Alternating, Vague Worldbuilding, but definitely not impressed, kind of soulmates, life injuries, perhaps slightly turned on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 09:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16808335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamyPen/pseuds/DreamyPen
Summary: Miraak plans to return to Tamriel.Karrigan, the Last Dragonborn, isn't quite as keen on this.





	Tamed It in the Rapture

Despite the heavy layers of enchanted cloth that Miraak’s robes were made of, Apocrypha’s pervasive chill seemed to permeate every inch of the plane of Oblivion. No matter the number of warming spells he cast, its coldness seemed unaffected, sinking through his skin and settling in his very bones. Miraak nearly ached with it.

So long had he spent in Apocrypha...so much time that could have been directed to much more fruitful ventures in Tamriel instead of eons spent wandering dusty bookshelves in some shadowy corner of existence.

Miraak felt his ire stirring at the thought and suppressed it with a skill long-borne of necessity. Hermaeus Mora was a fickle master—sometimes Miraak’s discontent with his situation seemed to amuse him, but on other occasions, it earned punishment. But punishment from the Daedric Prince of Fate and Forbidden Knowledge would not be a fearful consideration for much longer. Even as Miraak descended from a stone dais to greet an assembled collection of Seekers, he could sense, ever so faintly, the results of his will bent upon the inhabitants of Solstheim through the corrupted All-Maker stones. Through his connection, he sensed their lulled complacency, their weak minds like lumps of soft clay as they carried out his directions. With every runic symbol carved into the stones, his power and influence only grew stronger. Unlike Hevnoraak, who enthralled an army of disciples with his experiments in mind-controlling magicks, Miraak felt no particular glee at the invisible chains he had wrapped the Solstheim inhabitants in. They were merely a means to an end.

Far above in the roiling green skies, Miraak sensed Sahrotaar, Kruziikrel, and Relonikiv circling restlessly. Long ago, when he first summoned the three to Apocrypha’s dark plane, he had been paranoid of the effectiveness of _Gol Hah Dov_ , speaking it into existence at every imagined buck against his control. Now, after millenia, he rarely bothered. His control was utter and complete. It had been thousands of years since they last attempted insurgency. Above all else, dragons recognized and responded to power.

His boots struck the last wide-lipped step and the amassed Seekers turned to face him. “The time comes soon, when—” he began his address, only to pause when a mass of energy suddenly twisted into existence behind him, carrying with it a presence unlike any he had ever felt. The shock of it had him abandoning his speech mid-sentence and whirling around on his heel. Lightning crackled around his fingertips, ready to leap from his hands at a moment’s notice.

The newcomer to Apocrypha swayed where they stood as a few remaining tentacles slunk back into the lifeless soil. The ground quaked as Sahrotaar landed behind him, summoned by his master’s unusual show of surprise.

As the figure straightened, Miraak wasted no time. He had not been a feared combatant as a dragon priest because he hesitated to make the first attack. Oftentimes, his enemies were dead before they even realized he was there. Lightning shot from his fingertips and struck the unsuspecting newcomer instantly, sending them hurtling to the ground on their knees as it sapped their strength.

Over their cries of pain, Miraak thundered, “Who are you to dare set foot here?” It had been several hundred years since Apocrypha’s last visitor in foolish search of forbidden knowledge, and that unfortunate soul had long-since been mutilated into another Seeker by Hermaeus Mora’s influence. No one ever entered Apocrypha by honest mistake, as the Black Books that were needed to gain entry only responded to an earnest and genuine desire for knowledge. What could it mean, Miraak wondered, that it was now, at this delicate time in his plans, Hermaeus Mora permitted another visitor to his realm?

The newcomer gave no answer to his question, so Miraak sent out a whisper of aura that would assess them more truthfully than any verbal answer given. The moment his soul brushed over theirs, an overpowering connection between them sprang to life. It was like two wolves, strangers to each other, meeting out in the frozen tundras of Skyrim. Power, immense and draconic, emanated from the stooped person. It was nearly impossible to mislabel. 

_“Ah,”_ Miraak said, relaxing, satisfaction evident, “You are Dragonborn...I can feel it.” He paused, tasting the other’s soul more deeply. “And yet…” Echoes of their life imbued the soul with a distinct flavor. He tasted pain, sorrow, and grief, as well as joy, rage, and bloodlust... all offered up on a veritable banquet of consumed dragon souls. Even deeper, he recognized the black influence of Alduin the World-Eater himself. The identity of the figure became unmistakably clear, banishing any lingering doubts. So this was the current Dragonborn. He had read countless reports and letters as they appeared in Apocrypha, one by one, on the legendary figure. This Dragonborn, unlike countless before him, had succeeded where even Miraak had failed: defeating Alduin.

“So you have slain Alduin. Well done.” It was a genuine remark. Felling Alduin was a mighty deed, and Miraak, like the dragons he had conquered, plainly recognized power where he saw it. “I could have slain him myself, back when I walked the earth... but I chose a different path.”

At this point, the Dragonborn managed to raise his head, causing his hood to slip back, and Miraak realized his mistake. This Dragonborn was not a man at all, as he had so arrogantly assumed according to what he read. She was a human woman, with skin tanned from a life spent working outside and hair dark as a raven's wing, tied back in a simple but elegant braid. Miraak stood close enough to her to see the piercing ice-blue shade of her eyes, though they watered with pain. Most striking was her age; she was younger than he had expected. Although her features seemed fine enough to indicate a noblewoman upbringing, her lack of wrinkles and lines pointed to a life in the range of twenty-five to thirty winters. Miraak himself had been approaching forty when trapped in Apocrypha, and though the unremarked passage of time in the plane of Oblivion had no effect upon his appearance, he felt every year spent in the gloomy realm weigh heavily upon him.

“You have no idea of the true power a Dragonborn can wield,” he finally remarked, disturbed that someone so young had succeeded where he had not. It took barely a moment to shout his armor into existence, and he stood with shoulders thrown back in pride and defiance as he was encased in his dragon aspect. “This realm is beyond you. You have no power here. And it is only a matter of time before Solstheim is also mine. I already control the minds of its people. Soon, they will finish building my temple, and I will return home.”

As he spoke, he questioned why he was telling her all these things. Perhaps it was an effort to demonstrate his power, his ego ruffled by her defeat of Alduin. Perhaps it was the result of millenia without another human soul to converse with. She said nothing, teeth gritted through the pain as her muscles spasmed from the lightning.

“Send her back where she came from,” he said finally, turning to instruct the Seekers. Truth be told, it did give him a petty pleasure to turn his back on her as though she posed no threat, and to his amusement, he could sense her formidable rage mount higher in reaction. “She can await my arrival with the rest of Tamriel.”

Mind already moving to more demanding problems, Miraak strode away to where Sahrotaar lay in docile wait, neck subserviently extended to be mounted. The Dragonborn’s cries of pain as the Seekers began to exert their strange powers accompanied the sound of wings as Sahrotaar launched himself into the sky, Miraak settled at the base of his sinewy neck.

An unfamiliar voice, hoarse with pain and anger, yelled, _"Miraak!”_ , but by the time he looked down upon the diminishing ground below him, she had already vanished. It was for the best. Miraak would decide how to approach her after his return to Tamriel.

**oOo**

It was some time later when Miraak sensed the defeat of a dragon. By then, he had accumulated enough power to send an incorporeal shade of himself into Tamriel, though he couldn’t sustain it for very long and his ability to influence his surroundings was very weak.

Tamriel was... _glorious_. His memories, faded over time, failed to do it justice. Things as mundane as the way fields of grass rippled under a light breeze, the azure shade of sky stretching endlessly overhead, and the ever-present bustle of living things both big and small scurrying through the underbrush...they all struck him with as much poignancy and marvel as though they were entirely new sights to behold. After a long moment of savoring, Miraak opened his eyes and turned to the scene of interest that had drawn him from his chambers in Apocrypha.

The young female Dragonborn staggered away from her finished battle, chest heaving in exertion. The dragon’s corpse had barely begun to settle upon the sloping hillside where it had crashed before it began to glow, and Miraak sensed the ties between its mortal form and its immortal soul begin to weaken. Evidently, the woman sensed the same thing, for she flicked dirt from her armor-clad thighs and prepared to accept the soul.

Here, Miraak stepped in. It was child’s play to divert the helpless soul into his reach, and he received it with glee as its power boosted his own. The soul settled in his belly alongside the cluster of its slain brethren. In his last battle with the dragon cult, he had absorbed over twenty dragon’s souls before they sent Vahlok to face him in his temple. Though it had been centuries since he’d last consumed a soul, he had never forgotten the feeling of new power flowing through his veins, hotter than the strongest firebrandy. The woman whirled on him, and he took pleasure in the sight of her shocked face at his appearance.

“It takes a strong will to command a dragon’s soul...perhaps you aren’t as powerful as you think,” he taunted.

Her expression darkened thunderously, fine brows pinching together. “You stole my soul… how _dare_ you? How are you even here?” Her hand went to her side, unsheathing the ebony blade she had just stowed away. Miraak noted distantly how it gleamed with enchantments, speaking to her proficiency in the skill.

“Patience, _mal dovahkiin._ You will witness my full strength in time.”

“I don’t want to witness it,” she said, advancing threateningly to where he stood at ease. She held her weapon with great familiarity, treating it as an extension of her arm. “I’d rather flatten it into the dirt. Draw your weapon, coward.”

The interaction amused him greatly. She was certainly a sight out of some legendary tale, thick locks of hair tugged loose from its ties and whipping over her shoulders in the wind. Her face was smeared with dirt and blood from the battle, and blood ran from a gash in her shoulder by the felled dragon’s errant claw. She was in no state to defy him. Miraak would dishonor both her and himself if he struck her down here, when she had yet to reach the height of her power and still struggled taking down a single dragon. Perhaps it had been by lucky accident that she had defeated Alduin, instead of the legendary and skilled battle Miraak had imagined.

_“Saraan dii qalos,”_ he instructed, and receded to Apocrypha, as maintaining the shade’s appearance on Tamriel had begun to tax him. Like their first meeting, the sounds of her furious and ineffectual shouts rang in his ears as Tamriel faded away.

Plunging into the murky gloom of Apocrypha after experiencing the delight of Nirn again was a torment Miraak could scarcely withstand. For a moment, he was nearly overcome by his hatred of it. He _hated_ the amorphous, shifting nature of this plane of Oblivion, loathed the sickeningly-familiar towers of books rising from the oily sea, and most of all, he despised the Prince of this realm, who had so masterfully manipulated him into this unceasing imprisonment eons ago. It was during times like these, when the burdens of his captivity chafed too much to bear, that Miraak resorted to blasting everything in sight with the most destructive magic he had mastered. It only ever served to elevate his torment as his surroundings remained unharmed, kept preserved by the power of the presiding Prince, just as he himself had been kept preserved.

With effort, Miraak extinguished the blazing fireballs in his hands. It wouldn’t help his plan if Hermaeus Mora learned of it, his interest aroused by Miraak’s temper. Instead, Miraak turned his thoughts to more pleasant things.

He hadn’t admitted it to himself when they first met, but it had been a long time since Miraak had seen a human face, let alone that of a beautiful woman’s. As a dragon priest, he had often enjoyed the privilege and status afforded to him by the position. Women, and some men, had routinely offered their bodies to him in tribute of the “gods” he served. Although some of the dragon priests followed a vow of celibacy or were uninterested in rites of the flesh, Miraak had made no such promises. However, during his time in Apocrypha, that interest in pleasures of the flesh had waned entirely, suppressed by his isolation and despair. Miraak had not lain with another in a... _vexingly_ long time. Therefore, a part of him wasn’t surprised that the sight of the Dragonborn rekindled, in whatever small amount, his interest.

She was an enemy, of course, but it would make Miraak a poor sport if he could not acknowledge the things he found impressive about his opponent. The few glimpses he had scried from Apocrypha enticed him. She was a Nord woman with a fiery personality, one that responded with the strength of the dragon’s soul within her, though she regularly attempted to curb it into some semblance of polite manners for company. A thin scar bisected the length of her right eyebrow, likely a souvenir from a deathblow that had missed by increments, leaving behind the narrow mark instead of a split skull.

It was a pity he did not know her name. In the texts appearing in Apocrypha that recorded her adventures, she was simply referred to as “the Dragonborn.” It seemed few in Skyrim actually knew her personal address, despite the volume of her deeds.

Perhaps it was for the best. The less he knew her, the easier it would be to strike her down should she choose to stand in his way.

**Author's Note:**

> Been wanting to write this for a while. I love me some Miraak/F!DB goodness. 
> 
> Dovahzhul translations:
> 
> Mal dovahkiin: little dragonborn
> 
> Saraan dii qalos: Await my presence


End file.
